Page 74 of Vulnerate

“My.” Thrust. “Beautiful.” Thrust. “Fucking.” Thrust. “Wife!”

He ends on a roar turning rigid and filling me. He collapses over me and mistakes my racing heart being due to what we’ve just done, not what he said. Stupid prick, he always has to ruin everything. Crush people with his stupid mouth.

TWENTY-NINE

Daniela

Post sex dressing is always weird. Before the act everyone rips at each other’s clothes wanting them off as quickly as possible. The norm is you get yourself dressed after, but Valentin is a strange fuck and kisses my temple.

“Stay here, I’ll get something to clean you up.”

Where the fuck has the Val gone who fucked me in broad daylight then disappeared without saying a word?

I’m bent over a table with a belt wrapped around my neck and my arms bound behind my back. But he’s acting like it’s some romantic date. I wince as he pulls out and kisses my cheek as he carefully frees me from the leather. His thumbs massage my tender skin and I’m a dumb fuck laying still as he does the same to my neck.

His lips follow the leather burn under my ear as I close my eyes, so I don’t have to look at him. It’s childish and I don’t care. He could have passed out or ran away again. That’s easier to handle. Post fuck clarity is a real problem, and my mental anguish starts already knowing this was a mistake.

He moves taking his comforting heat away and finds the bathroom easily. Coming back with warm paper towels, my face heats as he rests them over my stinging ass. When his hand moves between my thigh I weakly say, “I can do it. You don’t have to.”

If he literally wipes my ass I’ll never be able to look at him. Maybe he should, it would be a barrier to stop me making a fool out of myself all the time.

There’s no pause and he cleans me up. He makes it all worse, mentally, as he kisses my shoulder and softly says, “You’re wrong, I look after what’s mine.”

I’m not his. I want it more than anything, for the world to be different and this to be real. But it can’t be because he has a kid who is my nephew. There’s dysfunction that’s funny to look back on and then there’s dysfunction you sit down with a therapist to discuss.

The uncharacteristic gentleness continues as he returns my clothes back to my body before dressing himself. His lips press against every piece of skin before he covers me and then lifts me up, keeping any pressure off of my ass. Dropping my legs to the ground, I look around seeing the mess we made and clear my throat to strengthen my voice.

“I’ve got some things to do here.”

The obtuse asshole doesn’t take the dismissal and leans against the workbench opposite me with his hands gripping the edge. His shirt isn’t buttoned and the stark white highlights his tattoos perfectly, especially the cat on his chest. It’s the first one he got, I remember the day and how proud he was of it.

His chin drops to his chest, and he looks up with disappointment. The emotion carrying into a threat as he stares at me.

“Don’t do it Dani.”

Straightening my shoulders, I lie. “I’m not doing anything.”

It seems to be how we communicate best, bullshit our way through a conversation and then forget it happened.

I busy myself with sorting through the paintbrushes that are all over the floor. He doesn’t let me have any peace and pushes away from the bench. Val lowers at my side and collects them all in his obnoxiously big hand. Holding my chin between his thumb and forefinger, he tilts my face up and there’s nothing but honesty staring back at me.

“Don’t run away from me again.” His voice lowers with vulnerability as he continues, “I’m not 18 anymore, I’ll follow you around the world this time.” I’m weak as fuck already feeling my resolve turn into his cheerleaders as he rests his forehead on mine begging, “Stay with me.”

My stomach growls and he laughs lightly pressing a chaste kiss to my lips and softening further. “Do you still only eat pizza when you’re working?”

I’m officially on team Val again as I nod. The soft smile is my undoing. He’s so pretty in every instance but it’s the same smiles he’d give me when we were younger, and I’d collect them like a hoarder.All the feelings I had as a naïve girl are amplified, and the nostalgia makes it worse.

“I’ve got another spot, it’s better than the old place.”

My eyes close as he kisses my forehead. His lips linger until he steps back and orders me around.

“Don’t touch the glass, I’ll pick it up.”

I’ve seen his bedroom, it’s untidy. The image of him picking up after himself is too good to miss out on so I don’t touch the patch as he walks out. Once everything is put back in order, I stand in front of my heart projects. None of these pieces are made for other people’s consumption and they’re hidden at the back of the studio behind a curtain. Each one represents thoughts I can’t give a voice to. From clay work to sketches, they’re my diary, hidden away from the world because it holds my pain.

I trace the edges of one I’ve recreated for years in countless mediums, and emotion clogs my throat. Every time I see it I’m a kid again, dismissed and forgotten. It’s not as refined as the other pieces; each line is erratic and it’s old as fuck showing the mistakes I hadn’t overcome yet. But I carry it with me, a physical representation of the feeling that will never leave.

Three disassembled portraits, a child’s eye full of joy and their lips mid speech. Vines wrap around the words disguising them.

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